


leder burning (part one)

by badAquatic



Series: Trailerstuck [86]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Espionage, F/M, Fan Offpsring, Flashbacks, Homophobia, Illustrated, M/M, Misogyny, Police Brutality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 13:49:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5787541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badAquatic/pseuds/badAquatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes several weeks and a lot of dedication, but Dave Strider is more than determined to finally learn the truth of his origins. But what horrors lie twenty years in the past, and will he be able to continue his normal life knowing the truth of the infamous riots? </p>
<p>Takes place immediately after 'a scarlet letter'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the aftermath of the learning

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so I tried to tag this appropriately because these next two chapters are really tough. It was tough to write and a lot of unpleasant stuff happens, especially during the second half. With that said, let's continue with one of the chapters everyone has been waiting for. 
> 
> Previously on Trailerstuck:   
> Jade finally gives birth to Dave and her daughter, named Ness. Dave also learns that he has been accepted to University of New Jack on a paid internship. He wants to refuse, but Jade encourages him to at least visit the campus instead of outright refusing what could be a great opportunity. Thinking of his daughter's future, Dave finally asks his brother about his family's origins. Dirk hesitantly agrees.

**== >Be Dave after learning the truth **

 

Bro can’t go over every detail in a single day. This is the first time your brother and you have talked, without it being sparse words after strife. The conversation is never long; there are long pauses and sad looks. You don’t rush Bro. The slow pace allows you to maintain other things: helping Jade, taking care of Ness, and slowly catching up on school. (Gods, your attendance has been shitty. You hope it doesn’t count against you.)

Still, chunks of the story don’t include Bro so you spend your weekends gathering information. Bringing along Ness is a great distraction, especially for Roxy who’s the most eager to share.

“The truth is, I don’t know where I should even _start_.” Roxy is holding Ness, looking down at the infant. “I doubt Nessie and you want to hear about me growing up dirt poor on a farm.”

“‘Nessie?’” you ask.

Roxy shrugs. “Just a nickname. I think it’s cuter than ‘Ness’.”

It is more fitting for a two week old baby. “Just tell what you’re comfortable with. I already know too much about Bro. I may as well learn more about…” What do you think of Roxy as? Mother figure? Cool aunt? Big sister? “…my family.”

Roxy smiles and obliges you. Her side of the story isn’t as long as Bro’s but it fills in a lot more details on things that Bro wasn’t present for. Your next visit is to Jane but its very brief.  

“I only remember snippets of those crazy days.” Jane says.

Jane’s sparse stories are still helpful but she still breaks down in tears when she recalls John’s father. You’re thankful John isn’t around to see it.

You’ve put off visiting Meenah, as she’s the most cagey and the only way you can even get a conversation started is with bribery: food and the promise to grubsit. Meenah’s side takes the longest to piece together since there’s a lot of stopping and starting.

“You don’t understand. No, you shouldn’t.” Meenah says, “No one should ever have to go through what we did. I still have nightmares. I _try_ not to but it just happens randomly.”

You don’t force the issue and whatever Meenah doesn’t want to tell you, you’re better off not knowing.

After weeks of searching, asking, and listening to the entire story, you’re bone tired. Between your daughter’s birth and learning your origins, March has drained you like a vampire. You hope April will be less shitty but then you remember graduation is around the corner.

You make sure Ness is tucked away before you pass out on the futon with the baby monitor near your ear. With a baby around, sleep is a precious commodity and you’re often functioning on a half-hour of sleep on a good day. 

As you drift to sleep, the metal salt tinge of New Jack City’s air dissipates. The carpet melts into narrow, cracked roads. Hulking tenements rise into the air, crowding the horizon with tangled electric wires, noise, and smog. Signs in Leder Spanish bloom in window shops and the side of buildings:   

 _No hauw trolls nucusosaun aplicar._ No trolls need apply.

 _Los seres hemaunis silaumunsu._ Humans only.

 _Cinfoaur in el MP._ Trust the military-police.

The ground under you rocks in tandem with the waves. You are on a boat, lazily coasting toward the large port. As sleep sinks its claws into you, you return home.


	2. following the fuchsia trail

**== >Present Dave: Be Dirk 19 years into the past**

You are Dirk Strider and you’re fucking _exhausted._ You’ve been on this miserable tugboat for too long, subsisting only on the cheap, bland meals. If you lacked the foresight to pack nutritional bars, you’d be malnourished like the others.

Geneva can sense your mood. “Having second thoughts?” she asks in Old Alternian.

“A bit late for that.” you grunt, “ _You_ should be more anxious than me.”

Not helping your mood are the coarseness of your clothes, the lack of privacy, and the paranoia of lice. If Geneva shares your anxieties, she has yet to show it.

“We should get ready.” the jadeblood replies.

You don’t answer and follow her across the crowded deck, stepping over huddled bodies. You have nothing but the clothes on your back with their secret compartments, and the satchel securely strapped to Geneva’s waist.

 

Out of all the immigration offices you’ve dealt with, you find Leder to be the easiest. Geneva’s satchel goes through the metal detector and is immediately returned to her. After that you’re separated for your interviews as to your purpose in the country. Your interviewers are two military police officers who are made up to be intimidating with their shades and black uniforms bulging with hidden weaponry.

“You speak Spanish?” the bigger MP grunts in rough English.

“Yes, sir.” You say slowly in school-taught Spanish.

“What is your purpose here?” The other MP says in Spanish. He doesn’t look up from the paperwork, twirling a stamp in his hand. 

“I need work. Can’t stay in Canzia, you see?” You make sure your voice trembles as you point to the paperwork accompanying the passport.  

The bigger MP looks over the stamps and certification. “Uh huh. You come alone?”

“No. My maid came with me.”

“A maid, huh?” The bigger MP turns to his companion and grunts in Portuguese, _“See? Even the poorest Canzian trash keep candy-corn whores.”_

 _“The grey she-beasts are always gagging for real dick and not a wiggling imitation.”_ snickers the other. He stamps your papers and shoves it toward you. “Down the hall and to the right for medical exam.”

You take the papers, still shaking. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Move along!” barks the bigger MP and you run like a scared rabbit.

The physician is also MP, but in a white uniform. He does his best to avoid touching you, looking over your body for rashes and combing your hair for lice (which, thank the gods, you _don’t_ have). The physician stamps your papers and you get shuffled into another room for a photograph and signing of the papers. A secretary folds your papers into a grey blue booklet and you’re ordered out into the lobby.

The lobby is crowded with people and noise, emanating not just from the crowds but the constant blare of crackling announcements from the speakers. The large room is evenly divided into HUMAN and NON-HUMAN but you make your way toward the doorways and keep a lookout for Geneva.

Geneva arrives a half hour later. She does not speak to you but gestures that you follow her outside. You play the part of her employer and walk ahead, with Geneva following two steps behind.

Even in the morning, the sun is streaming brightly overhead and the traffic is hazardous, not helped by the narrow roads and sidewalks. Few people observe turn signals and you’re amazed these old cars are still running, made before the days of collision detection and self-stopping. Outside every major buildings is the low vibration of mosquito disruptors--populated throughout the seaside cities to keep the another malarial epidemic at bay.

As a caution, you keep far from the roads.

You duck down an alley where you’re sure not to be watched too closely. “What took so long?” you whisper in Spanish. Speaking censured Old Alternian could rouse anyone’s suspicion, but especially a plains clothes MP.

“Trolls must go through a different process. Troll women especially.” Before you can ask, she says, “I still retain the package.”

“Were you able to gleam info about the girl from anyone?”

Geneva shakes her head.

You sigh. “Trollslum it is then.” You sigh.

You’d been hoping to avoid that wretched place but fate has other ideas.

You steal a map of Leder from a tourist kiosk and ride the trolleys. You squeeze between the miners heading to or from their job and move along the routes until you arrive at Brewer Basin. The district is cleaved, with one side being cramped tenements, storefronts, and narrow roads and the other behind the high metal fence. The fencing is piecemeal, parts rusty and new with a variety of signs showing how many eras it has stood.

You look at the entry to Trollslum, which is a dirt path sloping down a hill. As if hearing your thoughts, Geneva says, “Two blocks from here is an abandoned subway. It’s the route ‘traders’ use.”

The abandoned station is easy to find, blocked off by flimsy barricades. Judging by the trash and excrement nearby, it has several inhabitants. You enter the near darkness of the station and by match light, assemble your weapons. You transported them in pieces—chunks of lightweight metal sewn into your clothes that wouldn’t show up on a detector. You slide and click them into place, assembling your sword. Its not the strongest but it’s sharp and will do wonders as long as you work quickly. You were loaded down with the weaponry because the Leder military police were less likely to harass you.

You continue exploring the abandoned subway, glad for your boots and strong stomach as you endure stale air and rotten odors. You start to despise your flashlight when you come across corpses mummified by heat and rats. Geneva needs no flashlight and walks through the darkness, saying nothing as she navigates the tunnels.

Its an hour before you encounter living inhabitants; a shabby group of frightened and hungry trolls and reptiles. They’re gathered around a burning trash can, roasting hot dogs of questionable freshness. The biggest of them is a blueblood with broken horns and a battered body.

“This here’s got a toll, folks.” He grunts.

Geneva’s hand is at her knife but you intervene. “We’ll pay for information, not your toll.”

“Pounds are pounds, ape.”

You show the blueblood the picture you’ve carefully carried from Canzia to here. “Have you seen this troll?” 

The blueblood squints at the picture with a lopsided grin. “Pretty thing, but she ain’t never looked that clean. Hid out in these here tunnels once or twice.” He squints. “Had a purple grub with. Queerest thing you ever saw. Went up and disappeared. Ain’t got the memory to ‘member when she left.”

You give him a five pound note and continue down the tunnel.

The second band of stragglers is less friendly and you have to settle the issue with steel and blood.

“Why would Meenah hide here and not in Trollslum?” You ask, wiping your sword off on a rag you yanked off one of the corpses. “If she had the child with her, that meant she had already been here for some time.”

“There are many ways to make enemies in Trollslum.” Geneva loots the scattered bodies. “Perhaps someone was hunting her?” She makes a curious noise in her throat as she pulls syringes and vials off of a corpse.

You glower at her in the dim firelight of the homeless camp. “We’re not dealing.”

Geneva _tut-tuts_ like a mother disappointed in her child. “Where there is extreme poverty, there is bartering.”

You don’t have time to argue. “Keep me out of it.”

Geneva shrugs and pockets the vials.

At the tunnel’s end is not another empty station but a giant hole with collapsed cement walls and the remains of sawed pipes; what is left of the old structure has been cannibalized for the rest of the slum.

Trollslum isn’t as chaotic as you originally envisioned. The sanitary conditions are cause for concern, but there is organization. The area you’re in must be the business district, as every building lists handmade signs and service pricing. The air is rank with caustic soap.

You walk down the narrow roads, avoiding garbage piled up on the corners, potholes, and mounds of broken concrete. Dust and dirt-smeared trolls in plastic uniforms are lined up in the doorways of homes while others emerged freshly scrubbed.

You pass by a bulky tealblood tossing dirty water into the street from a basin. She glares as you walk by.  “Don’t give me no shit, Mister Blondie. I already paid that them overseers.”

Overseers? “We’re looking for information.”

The tealblood rests the basin on her hip. “Only information I got comes from these here miners.”

You show her the picture. “Have you seen this troll?”

The woman frowns. “Yeah, I see them ‘round. Way back though. Hung by that market and had them grub. Purple was what it was.”

The tealblood gives you directions to the market. As you’re walking, you ask Geneva, “They keep mentioning the child. Why?”

“How many children do you see?” Geneva asks.

You look into the windowless squat homes, which are crowded with people but sparse with children. The few children you do see roam in large groups.

“Are the trolls here sterilized?” you ask.

“The ex-felons are.” Geneva says. When she sees your face, she adds, “It’s precaution for all criminals, even the humans. For others, it is more worthwhile to sell the children.”

Her words run clawed ice down the back of your neck. You pick up the pace toward the market.

At near dusk, the market is almost empty. Pushers linger by empty stalls—human, lean, and hungry-looking as they search for customers. The gangs of Leder don’t stand out like they do in Canzia with colors and posturing. They blend in, or they’ll earn trouble from the MP.

Geneva uses the stolen soporin to connive one into thinking you’re part of the ‘trade’. You don’t breathe in the man’s rank stench as you show him the picture. 

“Yeah, I seen that bitch.” the man says, “Wanted merch but couldn’t pay. I give her a primo offer for the kid and she socked me in the _eye_! Last time I do some nug cunt a favor.”

“Do you know where she went?” you ask.

“Sea nugs shack up on Third.”

Locating Third Street is difficult because there are no street signs, just colored flags and wall markings that Geneva translates. “For the illiterate ones.” She explains. A white flag with three red X’s hanging above a street marks Third Street.

Third Street is mostly mud and water polluted by soap and gods know what else. The buildings are ruins, overgrown with tall grass and knobby trees. Crowded around the decrepit buildings are tents. The sea-trolls bask on slabs of cement, sometimes watering themselves to prevent drying out. Still their skin is all cracks and blisters, with hard and cauliflower-like growths spreading around the eyes, mouths, and gills.  

With Geneva’s words, you are able to find the oldest among them, wearing thin rags that barely hide her nudity and missing her left eye.

“Meenah.” She says, “Got tossed down here right off the boat. Girl spoke the worst Spanish you ever heard but she was one of us. Didn’t have no space for her so that girl bounced between here and the tunnels ‘til Old Tellez died. Then she moved into his tent. Had a mouth but worked hard as a washer. Girl had a habit though and had to high tail it when she burnt out her dealer’s good will.”

“Where would she go?” you ask.

“No telling.” She scratches the infection on her gills. “Pretty young things like her end up in MP flats as mistresses.”

“Their wives don’t argue about that?”  

“Rather hard to argue with a fist.” She points to her missing eye. “Though they’ll get their battles in when they can.” She pauses. “Meenah had a mouth but the girl was no fool. I told her if she was ever in the shit, she could get herself some sanctuary in a troll church. Even MP hesitate to touch you in a house of God.”

You can tell by the misty pain in her eyes that she doesn’t believe her words. You thank her for the information with a measly amount of money and leave the wet, ruined district. Dusk is coming Geneva doesn’t move to the tunnel. She approaches the slope winding up to Brewer Basin. You almost ask her what’s wrong until you hear the movement of three not-so-stealthy muggers following. No way you can return to the tunnels. The homeless tribes were sick and starved, but a worthwhile opponent in the narrow darkness of the empty subway could be deadly for you.

You stop at the base of the path to face your would-be attackers. They’re three of   the most shrunken and malnourished coldbloods you’ve ever seen, but they’re armed: broken metal pipes and baseball bats.

You _almost_ feel bad about the beating you put on them. They don’t even have the size advantage most coldbloods have, but behind every swing of the pipe and sock to your jaw is raw desperation. They’re eager to beat the shit out of you, which gives Geneva an advantage with her knives.

When Geneva cuts the throat of the last troll, she helps you off the ground. “One of these days, I won’t be here to help you off your back.”

“Then I assume I’ll be helping you?” Blood is streaming from your nose, tainting your mouth with ferrous aftertaste. You touch it and wince. “Shit. Broken.”

Geneva scans the horizon line of Brewer Basin’s street. “An advantage in our case.” She tugs your hand. “This way.”

Your pride is hurting more than your nose as Geneva leads you up the hill. The jadeblood has an iron grip on you; you doubt you could pull away from her even if you wanted. Even wrapped in the curtain mockery of what Leder considers appropriate dress for women, Geneva is nothing but hard muscle.

You question what she looks like without those layers but you know better than to snoop in this line of work.

When you’re at the top of the hillock, the sun has set. Light shines through the windows as businesses tidy up for the night. Geneva pulls you into the light of a bakery in a tall building. Outside is a cheerful sign with a grinning jester painted in both corners: _The Harlequin Bakery_. (What kind of place celebrates clowns in a country that forbids trolls from their dark clownish culture?)

Geneva walks over to the door, frantically banging on it. “Help! Help please! Oh, please help!” she calls out in a quavering, falsetto voice.

A young woman comes to the door with short black hair and glasses. She unlocks the door and looks at Geneva. “What’s wrong?”

“Jane, careful!” Behind the young woman is a man—tall, freckled, with dark hair and brown eyes.

“Johnny, stop it! Look at this poor thing. She’s _frightened_.” Jane scolds.

Johnny grunts and shuffles from behind a counter, brandishing a kitchen broom like a sword. In gun-starved Leder, it may as well be.

“Mister Strider is hurt terribly bad!” Geneva wails, working up pale green tears.

“It’s not that bad.” At least you don’t have to pretend to be dazed by the blood loss and aching bruises.

Johnny gulps. “Gosh! You look like a two ton paperweight hit you!”

“Feels like it too.” You murmur.

Johnny helps you into the bakery and Jane secures the door, flipping the _Open_ sign to _Closed._ The quaint couple introduce themselves and make conversation as Johnny looks you over. They don’t have much in the way of first aid but Johnny makes due with alcohol, rags, and a big handsome grin. Jane makes coffee and entertains as you marvel as her eyes. They’re a bright wonder, not something commonly seen in the Leder populace who tend to share Johnny’s brown eyes and freckles.

“You folks just get off a boat?” Johnny asks.

“Yeah, and made the worst kind of friends.” you say, “I left Illaska to _avoid_ this.”

“Mister Strider was very brave,” Geneva says shyly, keeping up her demeanor as the frightened troll woman saved by the strong human male, “All I wanted was to see if I had family here. Things not turn out so well though. Mister Strider protected me though. He always protects me. I don’t know what I would do without Mr. Strider.”

Behind those cloying, submissive words is an astringent mockery that makes you blush.

“A sweet gesture,” Jane says, “but incredibly stupid. The slum trolls aren’t friendly; not even to their own. Do you even have a place to stay?”

“No.” you sigh, “We were hoping to stay with Geneva’s relatives. It is hard finding a lodging here that will let us stay together.”

“Yes, places are like that.” Jane sighs, “I don’t think Daddy will mind if you stay the night and keep it quiet from the landlord.”

“Thank you for your kindness.”

Jane serves you two slices of cold meat pie and an airy cake. After living on energy bars and nutritional shakes to get the ‘starved immigrant’ look, you’re glad for a real meal. You share your persona’s history with Jane and Johnny: a hard worker from Illaska trying to make money abroad to send back home and pay off student loans.

Jane makes noises of sympathy at your plight, but still takes precaution when you bed down for the night. Jane and Johnny take care to securely lock the door leading up to the rest of the tenement, the back kitchen, and cash register. The only thing available is a battered door leading to a narrow water closet. Geneva and you sleep behind the counter on a pile of old blankets. They’re thin and itchy but better than nothing.

No, the worst thing is lying next to Geneva.

If Geneva feels awkward, she doesn’t show it. She tenderly strokes the satchel with her thumb.

“You can take that off, you know.” you say in Old Alternian.

“I can’t. Instincts.” Geneva replies, “We are no longer an empire, no longer a united people, no longer a dominant species…but she is our past and future. Our history distilled into the coldest blood.”

You have no response for that. No proper human equivalent. You try to sleep but the nightmares that plagued you in Canzian have followed you here. You awake startled, several hours before dawn. Geneva lies on her side and staring at you with a vampire’s hunger. In the twilight darkness, her eyes are reflective like a cat’s.

“Hungry?” you joke, unsettled by her rainbowdrinker gaze.

Geneva blinks. “Did you say something?”

Oh, that’s right. The jadeblood prefers to sleep with her eyes open.

You’re relieved when dawn comes and Jane enters the bakery with an older man, who Jane introduces as Mr. Crocker: her father and bakery owner. You greet the older and yet still rather hot man with an awkward smile and a firm handshake. The man’s hands are rough for a baker and the knuckles scarred and battered.

“He’s got a good grip, Jane. You should’ve married him.” says Mr. Crocker.

“Oh, Daddy, stop kidding!” Jane laughs.

The look on the man’s face tells you he’s _not_ kidding. He makes this evident when you’re treated to breakfast with the Crockers in the bakery. Over bacon and eggs, Johnny grills you about all things Canzian: from music to movies.

“You’d be hard pressed to find a place here that plays some good Canzian jazz!” laments Johnny, “Even the pirate stations are playing records from three years ago!”

“I’d give a hundred pounds for a Canzian detective novel.” Sighs Jane, “They just don’t write ‘em as well here.”

“If I’d known from before how valuable Canzian things are here, I would’ve brought some of my things from back home instead of selling them.” You chuckle.

“Unless you’re crafty, the MP would’ve taken them.” says Mr. Crocker, “We haven’t had much of anything in Leder, unless you count the computer parts from Raffil.”

“Or the gemstones that go out.” adds Jane.

“Not all of them.” Johnny says and slides his fingers over Jane’s ring finger, studded with a medium sized smoky ruby. In Leder, it must have been cheap to get a low quality gem.

Geneva says nothing, remaining as quiet and withdrawn as her persona demands.

After being stuffed with food, Geneva and you continue the search. Meenah couldn’t have gone far from Brewer Basin without attracting notice and being shoved back into Trollslum, so you explore the local churches.

Brewer Basin churches are all Orthodoxian and segregated in a hundred different ways--reptiles only, carapaces only, humans and carapaces only, carapaces and trolls only—and the two troll churches you find have never seen Meenah or anyone similar to her.  Each search is a dead end and by late afternoon, you’ve exhausted most of your sources. You get out from under the blazing sun and sit on a shady bench overlooking a canal lined with public water pumps, the only source of water for this section of Brewer Basin. In the intense heat, the water is only an inch deep and mostly mud.

“Why is everything so divided?” you ask, “I know Leder was founded by humans, but why would trolls _willingly_ immigrate here?”

“It was very different in the early days, when Leder was carved up into segregated fiefdoms.” Says Geneva, “In those days, it was of equality standing but with the new regime came new ideas.” She shrugs. “There are countryside people who still remember the days of troll colleges and industry.”

“Remembering isn’t the same as helping.”

“Not our prerogative.” Geneva pursues her lips. “The girl must be here. There’s nowhere else for her to go.” Before you say it, she adds, “She can’t be dead. Her blood color would have made news or rumors.”

“Would trolls here know the value of her blood?”

Geneva shakes her head. “You’d be hard pressed to find anyone here who believes the idea of trolls having their own empire and fuchsiabloods existing. Most have pinned it on mythology constructed by a fallen species.”

“They’re not taught trollian history?”

Geneva snorts. “What would _that_ matter to the human educators?”

You look to the canal. Children have gathered in the bottom, assured that no cars or motorbikes would try to run them over if they played here. The group is mixed in gender and species, clothed in hand-me-down overalls and pinafores, having constructed a stickball field out of the piles of arranged wood debris and rocks. The un-athletic and daintier girls sit on the sidelines cheering the players.

A purpleblood kit goes up to bat, clutching a metal pipe. His tall horns are poking out of his woolen cap. You rise and move to the edge of the play area, trying to get a glimpse his face.

“Knock it out of the park, Gamzee!” a shoeless white carapace cheers.

“Curve ball! Curve ball!” insist the audience.

The ball is thrown, swooping through the air, but the kit has a steady eye on it. He strikes it and you watch the ball soars over the canal top.

“Out of the park!” cheers the shoeless carapace, “Homerun!”

“I’m gonna be mad if you lost our ball!” growls a human boy and scrambles up the rocky side of the muddy canal.

While Gamzee makes his rounds around the bases, you slowly step down into the play area. Immediately, the children freeze and back away. Play is for children after all and any adult that interferes brings trouble. Gamzee freezes on third base and glares at you.

“Your name is Gamzee?” you ask.

Gamzee shifts from foot to foot, still glaring.

You search in your pocket. “Can I ask you a question?”

Gamzee takes three steps towards you and stops. He’s not willing to get any closer.

You show him the picture. “Have you seen this troll?”

The kit’s eyes widen and he bolts. He scrambles up the opposite side of the rocky wall and continues running.

Geneva sighs, standing on the top of the canal. “You truly have a way with children.”

You don’t have time for a sarcastic response. You run after the kid before you lose sight of him in the crowded city. Geneva follows closely behind as you weave through the narrow streets.

Gamzee must be used to being chased because he’s eluding you with learned skill. He tosses garbage cans in your path and swerves around corners in a zigzag pattern. If you weren’t trained to chase, you would have lost him in minutes. You run through the labyrinthine roads of Brewer Basin, moving through streets not even cars can fit down. Adding to the maze are the identical buildings—scrap metal and tarpaper shacks leaning against abandoned tenements.

The boy runs into a blocky cement house with a wooden barricade. Stenciled onto the side in blue paint is _The Church of the Holy Sufferer._ The locals glare at you from inside their shacks or the shade of empty buildings.

Taking a deep breath, you let Geneva lead you into the church.

The inside of the church is nicer than the outside let on. There is a simple wooden platform, a podium, an assembly of mismatched folding chairs and stools, and a chalkboard schedule of services and sermons. Even the Sufferer statue hanging on the wall is a barebones woodcarving. There are only two doors, marked _No Entry_ in Trollslum symbols and Spanish _._

One of the doors opens and a middle-aged human preacher steps out. He cautiously looks you up and down. “Hello, my children. I don’t think I’ve seen you two around Geoffrey Street before.”

“We just arrived in Leder yesterday.” you say, “We wanted to speak with a purpleblood boy but he ran before we could.”

The preacher swallows nervously. “I’ll remind you that this is a house of God Incarnate, and I won’t have you harm my son.”

The word is a slap in the face: _son_?

“He may be the clue to a mystery we have been trying to solve.” Geneva says.

“And what would that be?” asks the preacher.

“To confirm that Meenah Peixes is still alive.” You say, “We’re sure she’s been through hell and…it’s a family matter.”

The preacher’s expression softens. “I see. Forgive me for my suspicions, but the atmosphere here is not always...” He shakes his head. “Never you mind. I’m Father Jimenez.” He knocks at the door behind him. “It’s safe.”

The door opens and a tall dolor walks out. Her hair is tangled but you can see her fuchsia eyes from behind the jade veil. Behind her is Gamzee, holding a lead pipe with a sharpened point.

“Are you Meenah Peixes?” Geneva asks.  

“What’s it to you?” the dolor asks, eyes steely.

“We must speak with you in private,” you say, “It’s about your parents.”

Meenah frowns. “Fine.” She pushes the boy away. “Stay here.”

Gamzee walks over to Father Jimenez and hugs the man’s leg. Before you can ask questions, Meenah escorts you into the back room.


	3. the lost daughter

 

The back room is both living space and storage. There are crates of Tomes, songbooks, and other religious paraphernalia stacked against a single bed, stove, and washbasin. Newspaper covers the walls, crusted with pungent sealant to keep out the moisture of Leder’s rainstorms. Meenah sits on the bed and yanks off her veil, wiping the sweat from her forehead.

“Are you a dolor now?” you ask.

“No,” Meenah snorts, “I just wear this to keep assholes from harassing me.”

You nod. “That boy out there…”

“Yeah, he’s mine.” Meenah pulls a crate out from under the bed and shifts through stained silk to reveal a soda bottle. She opens it and the windowless room fills with the strong odor of bootleg liquor. “Say your peace and get the fuck out of my life.”

“How do you know what we have to say?” you ask.

“I know threshecutioners when I see ‘em.” Meenah snorts and chugs her booze.

Geneva steps forward and opens her satchel. She removes a ball wrapped with yarn and fabric and unweaves it, revealing the hidden treasure to Meenah.

Meenah sputters on the alcohol and thumps her chest. “Holy shit!” she coughs, “That what I think it is?”

Geneva nods. “Feferi Peixes.”

“Shit.” Meenah slurps down the rest of her liquor and returns the bottle to its hidden place. “So what now? I ain’t exactly prepared to grubsit.”

“It’s not just that.” You say. Geneva glances at you but swallows her disapproval. “Your father wants you to return home.”

“Come home as _what?_ A slut? A failure? I won’t be like my idiot brother.”

“Meenah, your father misses you,” You argue, “and so does your mother.”

Meenah shows you her decaying teeth, affected by raw sopor abuse. “I barely know the bitch.”

“Do you _really_ want to stay here?” you press, “The international laws are on your side regarding the legal tape--”

“And what about my son?” She snarls, “He’s the son of my father’s worst enemy! If you know my father so well, how do you think he’ll deal with Gamzee?”

You _do_ know him well, so you don’t answer.

“Yeah,” Meenah growls, “that’s what I _thought_. I’m not abandoning Gamzee.”

“And what of your sister?” Geneva asks.

Meenah looks away. “You think I could take care of another kid?” She moves sweaty hair out of her face. “And lemme guess: Mom’s more than willing to help with money.” You don’t answer and she snorts, “Yeah, that’s always the thing she has in abundance.”

Geneva’s expression is still blank. She wraps Feferi back up and places her in the satchel, leaving without another word. You don’t follow. You want to offer the fuchsiablood hope—something poignant and meaningful—but nothing comes to mind. You abandon your futile attempt at comfort and follow Geneva out of the back room.

Gamzee and Father Jimenez are arranging a small buffet of simple food, lighting food warmers with matches.

“This is the last of the rice.” Gamzee says.

“Yes,” sighs Father Jimenez, “and the last of the tinned meat as well.” Gamzee looks gloomy and he pats the boy on the head. “I’m sure the congregation will understand. The Sufferer worked miracles with nothing at all. We’ll do the same.”

Gamzee grins, showing uneven fangs. “Okay.”

Geneva is gesturing for you to leave but you want to see this congregation. Its odd that none of the churches you visited would mention this place, or perhaps they were unaware or ashamed of its existence.

You don’t have to wait long for people to arrive. It’s the only mixed group you’ve seen in Brewer Basin so far—reptiles, trolls, carapaces, humans—and all equally shabby but bound in warm camaraderie. They shake hands with the preacher, exchange words of encouragement, and friendliness over a meal of thin broth and canned meat. Even Meenah leaves the back room.

The topics at hand aren’t scripture but politics. Two humans hand out Xeroxed newsletters with cheap easily smudged ink. _The L.S.S. Inquirer,_ its called, and the headline is _Corruption amidst the MP of Leder._ Under the headline is a rare (and illegal) black and white photo of a grinning MP officer surrounded by troll prostitutes. The article continues to listen the extraordinary spending of the state on luxuries and questionable entertainments.

This is the kind of journalism that gets you tossed in a dark cell and then an unmarked grave on the steppe. You quickly hand it off to someone else.

“We have things to attend to.” Geneva says, below the hum of voices.

“Stop hurrying. Look at this.” You gesture to those in the room, “This is the first time we’ve been somewhere _not_ mired in prejudice.”

“How nice for you, but we have other business.”

You want to argue but a frazzled rustblood woman runs through the door. “MP!”

Father Jimenez pales but he doesn’t hesitate in his next action. He faces the congregation. “Alright, people! Places!”

The people scurry into action. Meenah arranges a choir to start singing while Father Jimenez rushes to the podium, beginning a sermon. You blend into the crowd with Geneva, but stay close to the door.

Two MP officers bang open the door and stroll in. Their shades have a menacing glint in the dim light of the church. 

“ _But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who…_ ” Father Jimenez says over the hum of the choir. He turns to the doorway in false shock. “Oh, good evening, gentlemen! Are you here for the service?”

“Not my kind of church.” says an officer with a disgusted look at the congregation. He walks over to the serving table and points to Gamzee. “ _This_ sort of thing ain’t sanitary, Father: having one of _these_ handling everyone’s food.”

Father Jimenez bows his head, “True, sir, but it’s all I can afford for help. The boy’s egg was dropped from a windowsill and Lord Sufferer knows what else happened.”

The other MP snorts and pulls out his gun. You instinctively put your hand on your sword hilt, but Geneva’s hand grabs your wrist.

The officer points the barrel at Gamzee’s forehead but the purpleblood boy doesn’t move a muscle, staring at the MP with a dazed look. The MP squeezes the trigger but still Gamzee doesn’t move; not even when the gun _clicks._

The officer snickers and holsters the gun. “Retarded as ever, eh grape?”

The other officer turns to Father Jimenez. “Your rent’s late, Father, and I’m sure as the shepherd of this unnatural flock of sheep, you want to make sure to pay for your pasture’s security.”

Father Jimenez slowly steps down from the podium. “I was assured there would be no additional ‘payments’ until the end of the month.”

“Yeah, but your last payment was _late_ ,” continues the officer, “and unlike the prodigal son, that shit won’t fly.”

You pull away from Geneva and approach the officers. “Gentlemen,” you say, “I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”

The officer looks at you. “What do you want, freak?”  

“I want to make sure that this church stays open and you men go home happy.” You say, smiling, “Let me speak with your superior.”

“And why should we let them speak to you?” growls the other officer, stroking his gun.

“ _Because your boss and I speak the same language.”_ You say in Portuguese. You take two fifty-pound notes out of your wallet and show it to them. “ _Fifty-pounds each to leave me to your boss and fifty-pounds when I return in one piece.”_

The MP officers immediately shift from annoyed to interested. The one facing you gives you a wide grin full of yellow, crooked teeth and takes both notes.

 _“How about you pay me now and pay my pal later?”_ he answers in Portuguese.

You nod and go over to Geneva. You make it appear as if you’re hugging her goodbye but you whisper in her ear, in Old Alternian, _“Watch the girl.”_ Geneva nods and you return to the officers. “Let’s go.”

The MP walk you from the church and down a narrow dirt road to a black van sitting in an empty street. Thankfully, they don’t kick the shit out of you but they do place a black cloth bag over your head to keep up appearances. There are no lights in the back of the van, but you calculate the distance by the amount of time and turns. The van swerves from side to side, as the clunky machine can take few routes.

When it stops, the officers come into the back and cuff you.

“For security,” snickers the MP with the crooked teeth, but it’s to intimidate you and make sure you’ll be defenseless if they decide you’re a real criminal.

You’re walked into the MP station, though you can only see it filtered through the dark cloth. It’s full of winding cement corridors and constant noise: ringing telephones, men shouting, and fearful pleas. Some of this noise must be amplified to terrify newly arrived criminals. 

The black bag is only removed when you’re in a narrow, windowless room. The only source of light is a bare bulb. A chain bolted to the center of the floor is looped around your handcuffs so you can’t move from a hunched position as you sit in a metal folding chair. There’s little else in this room but the dulled noise and the stink of feculence and fear.

Instead of being stricken with fear as the setting would cause, you meditate and ignore the chafing pain from the handcuffs.

You stay like this for an hour. When the door opens, an officer walks in but with the addition of colorful medals and a sash: a high-ranked officer. 

 _“So, we have another upstart?”_ the man says in Portuguese. _“Another countryside academic that thinks they can improve things? No…”_ He rubs his chin. _“A foreigner who speaks Portuguese and slums it with trolls.”_

The man walks over, getting in your face. _“What are you really doing here? Are you bringing in drugs, you foreign pig? A Canzian ‘businessmen’?”_

Odds are that the man is more offended that he’s not receiving a cut of whatever scummy business you’re involved in.

 _“My name is Dirk Strider,”_ you say, calmly, _“and I am here on a work visa. My papers are in my shirt, if you wish to view them, sir.”_

The man looks disgusted. _“As if I would touch…”_

The officer pauses. You can’t tell what’s going through his head with the shades, but then he backs away--as if he’s seen a ghost.

 _“Diedrich…asu sae?”_ he asks.

Trussian. The man is speaking Trussian and staring, waiting for a response.

 _“How do you know that name?”_ you ask in Trussian.

 _“Answer the question.”_ The man insists.

 _“Once…”_ you sigh, “…once _I was known by that name, but not anymore. Who are you?_ ”

“Diedrich…” The man’s voice is shaky. You’re starting to hate this new mind game and you twitch, questioning the sturdiness of the aged handcuffs.

Fingers trembling, the officer removes the helmet. His face is thinner and older, but he still has the same dark red-brown hair and cool brown eyes. The overbite is gone—corrected with surgery to make him less recognizable—and the clunky glasses are gone.

“M-Michael…?” You gasp. The voice leaves your throat involuntarily, like a fearful exhaling.

“What are you doing here, Diedrich?” The man covers his mouth, breathing slowly. “What were you doing in that hellhole?”

“Looking for work.” You say because you can never deviate from your mission. “I was in the church that your men were shaking down.”

“Forget that, Diedrich!” The man—Michael, Milo, Squarewave, and other forgotten alias—closes the gap and takes your hands. “I considered you dead. Dead for so long and now you’re here…” He looks you up and down. “I’m sorry about this. If I’d known earlier…”

“It’s fine.” You say, voice quivering. “What do I call you now? We’ve had so many names…”

“Eric Solomon.” He says, “And you?”

“Dirk Strider.”

Eric smiles. “It suits you.” He shakes his head. “So much has happened. I’m an adult now. A major. A husband. A father-to-be--”

“Congratulations.”

Eric nods and fishes in his pocket. “Let me get you out of those cuffs. We’ll catch up more comfortably when you’re not sitting in the same chair as the city sludge.”

 “What of the church?”

Eric gives you a long searching look. Then he smiles. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow is a better day for all of this. I’ll not have been on my feet for nearly ten hours and we can come to an agreement on their behalf.”

So you’re not out of the woods yet, but you smile. “Alright.”

Eric uncuffs you and leads you out of the interrogation room. When you return outside to the van, the goons from before are waiting. They see Eric with you and nervously smile. When Eric goes back inside the station, you offer the goons their money but they won’t take it. They’re overly polite to you, letting you leisurely ride in the van without a hood and return you to the neighborhood without a single scowl or sarcastic remark.

“And don’t forget about your friends in the MP!” says the officer with the crooked teeth as you leave the van.

“Especially us!” the gun-lover titters.

They’re nervous as schoolgirls before their upperclassmen. You give them a very big, very false smile and promise you won’t. You walk back to the church, which is lit with candles and loud with hymnal prayers: a vigil for the dead or the disappeared. When you open the door, people are teary eyed and gasping. Even Meenah looks stricken and the stress on Father Jimenez’s face evaporates. 

You don’t see Geneva.

“Whole _and_ unbruised? Truly a work of Lord Sufferer.” Father Jimenez says with dark humor.

“That and pounds always grease the wheels.” You say, “It’s no true security but I think the pressure is off your home for now.”  

The pastor’s eyes widen and he swallows. “Bless you, son,” he whispers, “and bless Lord Sufferer and all his saints for sending you to us.”

The congregation flocks to you: not with prayers but their own problems. Some request a piece of your clothing for a luck effigy and others asking if you saw a relative in the MP station. Father Jimenez shoos the crowd and insists you’re welcome in his holy home. Meenah says nothing and Gamzee is hidden under the empty serving table.

“Mister Strider,” says a smooth voice, cutting through the noise around you, “I’ve found us lodging for the night.”

Geneva has reappeared with freshly muddied shoes. You leave the church with her, promising the congregation you’d ‘look into’ some of their requests.

Your ‘lodging’ is a general store three blocks from the Harlequin Bakery. The owner is a kind yellowblood with neurosurgical scars running along his temples. He lets you sleep on cots arranged in the dusty aisles and thin blankets.

Geneva only speaks when the lights are out and the owner is upstairs with his family. “What do you think you’re doing?” she asks in Old Alternian.

“Being a decent person?” you suggest.

“Deliver the child. Return the girl home, if possible.” continues the jadeblood, “Those are the mission parameters.”

“It’s not always about the bottom line!” you snap, “What kind of people would we be if we just handed over Feferi to be raised in this place? Those officers were looking to harm them, Meenah included.”

“This isn’t about them.” Geneva snorts, “This is about you being the heroic human male using your power to save the misguided trolls and women.” She tilts her head. “You’d rather be a hero in a shitty country than an unknown in your home country.”

Her words rake you across the face. You’d rather she’d just hit you for making a mistake, like your Trussian superiors.

“Canzian isn’t my _home_ ,” You growl, “and I have an ‘in’. One of the MP heads is an old acquaintance. We can make _changes_ here, Geneva. What is the danger in trying to make this a better place?”

“This is a country, Strider, not a club. You will be fighting traditions and cultures, not people. Change only happens with death, whether it is an individual or an entire generation.”

You wrap yourself in a blanket and pretend to sleep. Geneva is too old to hear your words, or understand that not all revolutions are bloody and ugly. You won’t go into this with darkness in your heart, expecting nothing but death and destruction. People need you and you refuse to fail them.

 

You leave the general store at six. The owner has no spare food so Geneva and you hoof it back to the Harlequin Bakery for breakfast.

Jane is glad to see you. “We were worried about you running on the bad side of the MP walking around this city fresh off the boat.”

“We had one encounter.” you say over your breakfast of sausage, toast, and coffee. You try to ignore the tobacco smoke coming from Mr. Crocker’s pipe as he reads the morning paper. “What do you know about Eric Solomon?”

“Man’s a hero all along Six Points!” Johnny says. “He came up from nothing and took a bullet protecting people during the Lakeside Riots! Nugs almost killed him but that didn’t stop him--” 

“Johnny!” Jane points to Geneva.

The tips of Johnny’s ears go red. “Sorry ‘bout that, Genny. You’re one of the good ones, but I’ve had too many close calls with your fellas.”

“So have I.” Geneva says, eyes downcast as befitting her mask.

Jane quickly changes the subject. “Have you found a place to live yet?”

You shake your head. “Still between places.”

Jane rubs her chin. “You know, the couple on the fifth floor is planning on moving out and the landlord is a kindly gent once you have the proper amount of pounds. I’m sure he’d rent to you, though he may charge a bit extra for having Geneva. I’m sure I could butter him up with one of my cakes.”

“I don’t want to impede on your hospitality, Ms. Egbert...” You say.

Johnny glares at the window. “Think you’ll have to impede a bit longer cause an MP van just pulled up.”

Mr. Crocker shuts his newspaper. Jane pales but retains her warm smile. “I-I’m sure they just want cake and coffee. Even officers get peckish.”

The MP van is identical to the one from last night and the same officers from last night get out. The trigger-happy one is walking with a limp as they approach the bakery.

“It’s okay,” you say, “I know these two.”  

The two officers are still polite and introduce themselves as Charrington and Parsons.

“We’re here to escort you to a meeting under our protection.” says Charrington, the one with the yellow and crooked teeth.

“I’m grateful for such attention.” You say and nod to Geneva, so she knows not to wait for you. It’s a hollow gesture since you doubt Geneva _ever_ waits for anything. Jane and Johnny are less hopeful and Johnny has a protective arm around Jane.

You follow Charrington and Parsons to the van and get in the back. Eric is waiting for you and in regular clothes: pleated pants, rolled sleeves, and suspenders pinned with gold. Like all Leder men, he’s dapper as hell.

Eric looks at you and frowns. _“This won’t do at all_.” He says in Trussian. He taps the metal mesh screen separating you from the officers and says in Portuguese, _“Take us to Mezzotown.”_

“I don’t need new clothes,” you say, “I want to talk about the church--”

“ _Let me do this for you, Diedrich. What is the point of earning so much so if I can’t help a friend?”_ Eric insists in Trussian with a grin.

You try to refuse but Eric’s badgering wins you over.

Mezzotown is brighter and cleaner than any place you’ve been so far. You _do_ feel better—and less homesick—when you have new clothes but refuse Eric’s offer to buy you new shoes. The fancy Mezzotown shoes would be torn apart by Brewer Basin’s rocky streets. Another hop in the van and you’re brought to the Upper South Side, in the cozy neighborhood of Robeline. Robeline has narrower streets than Brewer Basin but nicer buildings.

Your destination is The Chestnut Tree Café. It’s a pristine version of the Harlequin Bakery with serving staff and Portuguese menus written in fancy calligraphy. Every customer reeks of money and prestige, chatting while the live band plays classical music. Eric takes a window seat and a server offers him a cigar and brandy selection.

“Windswept Questant,” says Eric as the server lights his pick of cigar, “the finest cigar made from native tobacco.” When the server arrives with a bottle, he takes care in pouring. “Ah, and Laurels Brandy. Only Leder natives are allowed to brew it.”

You politely refuse the cigar but sample the brandy. It’s metallic and blunt on your tongue. “Interesting.” You cough.

“Every MP officer from the lowest private to the highest general gets a bottle for a job well done.” Eric says.

No wonder he enjoys the swill.

Eric sips from his glass cup. “Tell me, what have you been doing with your life?”

You stick to your persona’s history, explaining your arrival in Dadlas with little money, working in engineering but unable to find a steady job with a living wage. You bummed around and stayed in Illaska before hearing of work in Leder, but hesitated to leave. It wasn’t until you rescued Geneva from an abusive relationship that she told you all about it, having relatives there.

“That’s how they are,” Eric says, “Trolls are puffed up and mighty because they were once part of an intergalactic empire, but when you show them how much better the human ways are, they roll over. It’s just the law of nature for the weak to learn the ways of the strong.”

Its painful to keep your face neutral as Eric spouts that nonsense. Those aren’t his words though; just Leder’s cultural poison speaking through him. “What about the preacher and his congregation? As much as I enjoy seeing you, I’m here on their behalf.”

“That is a different matter.” Eric takes a long drag on his cigar, “A place like that attracts attention. I’m no fan of segregation but certain groups shouldn’t mix. Some places are a powder keg. I _hate_ to shut down a house of the Lord, so I worked out a deal with the preacher.” He shrugs. “Crooked, I know, but what can I do? Money doesn’t grow in the fields and you should see the state of our equipment. I have men running around in old boots, using old guns, and that van we rode in should have been decommissioned _years_ ago…”

“Then let me help pay off the preacher’s debts.”

Eric frowns. “With what money? You’re an unemployed immigrant.”

“The lowest of the low, but I can get a job. You’re aware of my skills. You must have friends that need someone like me.”

Eric doesn’t speak again until his brandy is finished. “We _could_ use a negotiator with these damn activists. You lock the bastards up and more spring in their place with an even _bigger_ martyr complex. They can’t understand that this is hard for me too, but I’d be sharing their cells if I dared agree with them. I have my own family to worry about.”

“I’ll do everything I can.”

“In exchange,” Eric adds with a smirk, “I’d like to see you at my son’s baptism.”

Baptism? “You…want me to be…?”

“Godfather? Of course!” Eric laughs, “Who better than a bleeding heart to watch over an infant? You’ll steer him right.”

“Are you sure? It’s so soon.”

“You’re a better candidate than the idiots I work with.” Eric refills your tall glasses and holds his up. “To friendship.”

You hold up your glass. “To friendship.”

You clink your glasses and drain your cup of the vile alcohol.


	4. meeting james

 

Leder is an open door to Eric and, by extension, you. He gives you a small device called a QuickMail so you can message each other. It’s made of heavy plastic, unlike the grooved and lightweight iHusks. Eric also gets you a job in the South City University’s IT department.

The job has a perk you don’t uncover until later: your supervisor Hal. He’s a handsome cybernetic with augmented eyes and the faint red glow of wiring running through his neck. Ten minutes into your first day on the job, he drops serious hints about being DTF.

The handsome bastard almost fucks you into a coma in his expensive dorm room. Post-orgasm, Hal wastes no time telling you this is a casual fling. You don’t care. You’re just glad to be laid after an especially bitter dry spell.

When you’re not working at the university, you’re at Geoffrey Street solving problems. In exchange for food and a place to sleep, you shake down thugs, negotiate with gangs, and do all you can to help. Geneva offers little help and spends most of her time doing gods know what. You don’t question what she does and she allows you the same courtesy.

By the end of the first month, you save up enough money (and Eric pulling a few strings) to earn a tiny apartment in the Egbert’s tenement. It’s not great but better than risking bedbugs and lice with constant couch surfing.

Geneva isn’t happy about it either. “An apartment implies permanency.”

“With bedbugs on the rise, you want to go back to couch surfing?” you argue, “There’s a communal shower _and_ hot water. Plus, refusing to settle down after so long will look suspicious.”

“What will happen to this place when we leave? This apartment is full of evidence that will lead back to you and this building is too large to be easily torched.”

“You don’t have to stay if you don’t like it!” you snap.

Geneva goes quiet. She’s never blatantly angry but her malice simmers under the surface like an underwater volcano.

After the argument, Geneva and you spend even less time together. The only times you meet is to inform your superiors of your movements and progresses in coded letters. The lack of time spent with Geneva allows you to focus on your third occupation: improving the situation between the MP and the activists. Eric rebuffs your every attempt to bring up xeno and human rights, so you put out small fires. You help free journalists, mediate interspecies disputes, and give activists lighter charges.

The steps are small and frustrating but New Rome wasn’t built in a day.

Three months go by like nothing. One evening in the church, Meenah approaches you.

“You didn’t have to do any of this.” This is the first time she’s spoken to you outside of the brief ‘hi’ and ‘bye’.

“You make it sound like being a decent person is a chore.” You say.

“It is.” Meenah nervously rubs her hands together. “Do you seriously think I could be a good mother to Feferi? I know her egg will hatch soon so…”

You smile. “Only one way to find out.”

Meenah has a wan smile. “I…I’ll try, okay? But I’m not leaving.”

It’s the least you can ask for. You inform Geneva of Meenah’s decision and two days later, the jadeblood hands over Feferi’s egg. Meenah cradles it as Geneva gives her a slew of information: keeping it cold, what music to play, and so on. As you both leave the church that night, you question if Geneva will miss caring for the egg.

You place a hand on her shoulder but she doesn’t react to the gesture. After a minute, you remove the hand. The only person who can comfort Geneva is herself.

You return to your apartment and discuss your next plan of action.

“The mission is over.” Geneva says.

“Feferi’s egg hasn’t hatched. She’ll need protection in the future.” You say.  

“You want to stay. Admit it.”

You shrug. “I may and I may not. The future isn’t etched in stone.”  

Geneva stands with a weary sigh. “Play house all you like, but I am apt to please our superiors. They are interested in the constant disappearances of their previous contacts. I am going underground to learn more.”  

“Will I see you?”

“No, and you will not seek me out.”

“What about those you left behind in Canzia? What should I tell them if you don’t return?”

Geneva laughs at the notion and leaves. Her absence leaves you hollow. You hated Geneva, but you respected her. Now you have no one to talk Canzian politics or give you a worthy argument.

To cope with the loss, you spend more time with Hal. At least Hal is talkative and you learn more about Leder between his sheets than you did in stilted conversations with Geneva:

“SU started out as a church school. It focuses on IT and engineering nowadays but the clergy still have a say.”

and

“Sodomy’s illegal but the school’s eighty percent men and the women are either engaged or unfuckable tommies. Albert and Howard? Definitely fucking. Dona and Russell too. Hell, I fucked Edwin and Warren both at the same time but they’ll tell you different.”

along with

“C’mon, I fucking hate condoms. You’re not a girl, so what are you worried about? Where am I even supposed to get condoms _from_?”

but most importantly

“Lord Sufferer, Dirk! Would you fucking hop off my dick already with this shit? This wouldn’t be ‘DL’ if we were holding hands and whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears. That’s the reason we’re not in a cell with pedos and rapists.”

and then

“Let’s cool it for a while, okay?”

Hal always resented you making him breakfast or your attempts at non-sexual intimacy, but the rejection still stings. You even try women again, but it doesn’t work because, as Hal bluntly put it, the campus women are either engaged or homosexual. The engaged ones _do_ flirt with you, but you’re too nervous to act on it.

You’re glad when Eric calls you about the delivery of the baby. Leder custom forbids bringing strangers over while the pregnant wife is present, so you’re glad to _finally_ see his home. Despite the news, he sounds dour over the phone. You chalk it up to him coming down from the anxiety of having his first child.

The trolley ride to the Upper South Side is pleasant and the Solomon home is a marvel. The building is in a historic neighborhood and MP patrol the streets. The only xeno are servants walking quickly from point A to B with downcast eyes.

Eric had described his home in few details but never mentioned its eloquence, from the gargoyles perched on the roof to the plaques and statues. The doorman is a small white carapace and an oliveblood manservant in a crisp uniform rings for their master. Eric comes down the grand staircase wearing a robe with _E.S._ monogrammed on the chest. He greets you with a hug, surrounding you in a miasma of brandy and cigar smoke. He leads you to the parlor, where another servant awaits.

“I guess it’s only fair for you to see the damage before the baptism,” sighs Eric, “Barbara’s out for the night for bridge and gin with her girls. Doesn’t want to be bothered and can’t say I blame her.”

“The thing?” you ask.

“The boy.” Eric corrects, “Went with ‘James’, after Barbara’s father. James Solomon Jr.”

Only a month ago Eric had been proudly talking about Eric Solomon Jr. “Is he sick?”

“In a way.” Eric glances at the servant and whispers, “ _It’s_ the wrong color.”

“Wrong color?”

Eric decides seeing would be better than explaining. He takes you to the nursery, which is a quarter bigger than your squalid apartment. Sitting in the corner is a carapace nanny, knitting a blue newborn cap. Resting in the wooden crib is your godson: pink-skinned with pale blonde hair. The swaddled infant peacefully sleeps, unaware of the hatred emanating from his father.

“He’s still human.” You offer but Eric grunts and leaves the room.

The baptism is a small and solemn affair, lacking the press, pictures, and partying of previous Old Money baptisms. Only the closest family friends and relatives are invited. Eric gives you shades for the occasion so the more conservative relatives won’t harass you about your eye color. You meet Barbara Solomon: a redhead with long legs and pouty lips.

After the baptism, the Solomons won’t release pictures of their son. Enforcing the secrecy is the MP, who crack down on aspiring journalists and stringers questioning the secrecy. Newspapers gossip about ‘The Million Pound Baby Pic’ and urban myths whisper the Solomon baby’s deformities: a dwarfish beast with a humpback, pop-eye, tricolored skull ridges…the list goes on.

Eric rolls his eyes at the questions but roars at the deformity rumors. “First they say I’m a corrupt bastard and now they say my genes are no better than a pig’s! But Lord Sufferer forbid they call on me when they’re being burgled and raped! Only trolls would come up with such stupid gossip.”  

“You can’t silence the gossips, darling,” Barbara says, lounging in her chair, “not unless you cut out their tongues.”

“If only, my dear.” Eric condones and clinks his glass with his wife’s. Husband and wife then quickly drain and refill their brandy, supplied by servants.  

“Speaking of trolls…” you say.

“ _This_ again.” Barbara stands and saunters out the parlor, “I seem to recall a time when a lady not named Molly could enjoy her parlor without the talk of work!”

When the parlor door shuts, Eric touches your tightly clenched first.

“I’m sorry. You know how it is in Leder.” Eric whispers in Trussian.

“I don’t care.” You lie.

“One day, things will be different.” Eric says, fingers massaging your hand now, “I’m working as hard as I can to fix it…”

“Are you really?” You scoff, “You _say_ you’re telling the men to be less brutal and getting those… _sodomy_ …laws repealed but nothing’s happened in _months_.”

“I’m calling in as many political favors as I can, Diedrich.” Eric croons, “You need to learn to relax. You’re going to have a stroke at this rate.” He moves to massaging the next hand, “But Barbara does have a point. People are suspicious of a bachelor at your age.”

“I’m in no mood to get married.”

“I wasn’t in the mood for marriage either, but here I am.” Eric shrugs. “Ours was a political one but Barbara and I are still good friends. It doesn’t have to be about love, you know. People do ‘cat marriages’ all the time.”

“I can guess why they’re called that.” you growl.

“Give it some thought, alright? You could even have a troll mistress.”

The conversation repulses you so much that you have to leave. You go directly to the church and do several jobs to take your mind off it. While you’re kicking the shit out of young thugs for harassing the elderly and ex-prostitutes, you wonder what the hell you’re doing.

You should really leave this awful place.

 

You remain in Leder for a year.


	5. the goat girl

**== >Past Dirk: Be Past Roxy **

“Ruxandra!”

Its Ruxandra at home and Roxy at school, as your teachers and fellow students can’t pronounce your real name. ‘Ruxandra’ is clunky with too many letters. ‘Roxy’ is hip and cosmopolitan, rolling right off the tongue.

You hide in the goat pen until your aunt disappears back into the house. Then you bolt to the bus station, crossing tobacco fields and unpaved roads. You’ve memorized the pathway since grammar school: from the house to bus station. From the bus to the train. From the train to the trolley. From the trolley to school. Reverse for the return trip home.

Ruxandra is a country hick. Roxy is a mistress of maps.

Today, you’re not interested in education. At New Post High School, you head to High Moor Hall, but don’t bother with Literature. You make a beeline for the computer room and—surprise, surprise—Hal is flirting with two girls while typing a spreadsheet. The girls give you a dirty look and Hal must feel a chill in the air because he swivels around in his chair to get a look at the intruder. Hal doesn’t frown, as the horndog is always happy to see a pretty face.

“What’s going on, goat girl? Your flock run off into the steppe?” he asks.

The girls giggle and you look at your clothes. In your rush from the house, you forgot to dust off the goat pen debris from your uniform. You don’t give a fuck. “We need to talk.”

Hal frowns. He whispers to the girls, who giggle again and leave. Once they’re gone, the augmented man leans back in his chair.

“Don’t bullshit me with pregnancy. I wore a condom.” He says.

“I’m getting married.” Hal does a _Why should I give a fuck?_ shrug and you roll your eyes. “So my would-be husband is going to find out I’m not virgin, which means I’ll be disowned!”

“Still sounds like your problem.”

“It’ll _be_ your problem if I tell your Orthodoxian college about all the girls— _and_ _guys_ —you’ve been fucking.” Your heart pounds in your chest, but if he wants to be Lord Bastard, then you can be Queen Bitch. “I’m sure your incredibly religious MP father will just absolutely _love_ hearing what a heartless poonhound his eldest son is.”

“ _Fine_!” Hal stands, mouth pressed into a thin angry line. “We’ll talk in South Moor.”

South Moor Hall. The troll-only section of the school. You’ve never been there but you’re not forbidden from going in; only the trolls are banned from leaving. You go to South Moor’s poor excuse of the library, full of century old books and bereft of a librarian.

You sit at a table in the back and negotiate like politicians in a hostage crisis.

“Why can’t you just bribe the guy?” Hal asks.

“I have no idea who the guy _is_. If he’s a traditional Shongolian, he’ll be outraged at me even suggesting it.”

“I still don’t see why you _don’t_ want to be disowned. You hate these people.”

“I hate their ways but they’re still my family. You think I want to be broke and homeless? Do you know what _happens_ to homeless women? _Especially_ the pretty ones?”

“Yes.” Hal admits with a genuinely sad frown. “Roxy, I’m only a teacher’s assistant. I can’t move the earth and the moon to change your family’s beliefs. They might still find out.”

“They can find out all they want but not until I’m out of the house!”

Hal takes a deep breath. “How do you feel about a green card marriage?”

It’s not a bad idea. If you _both_ know the marriage is a sham, that means you’ll have more freedom. “You got anyone in mind?”

“Yeah. He lives in Brewer Basin. Nice guy.” He pulls out his QuickMail and starts typing. “I’m sure we can meet him today.”

After the meeting, you go your separate ways for the day. Hal plays the part of the knowledgeable programming teacher’s assistant and you pretend to be the best student. At the end of the day, you get in his car and leave for Brewer Basin. Usually the administration frowns upon a male and female going anywhere without a trusted escort, but Hal is considered saintly.  

The irony _always_ makes you laugh.

You’ve never been to Brewer Basin, so you take in the sights and make your mental maps of the wretched roads. You notice the near-collapsing homes of Trollslum and try not to gag at thought of _your_ troll relatives living in such horrid conditions. The worst thing is the spoilt yeast smell in the air, like everything in the neighborhood is covered in skunked beer.

Hal brings you to a tenement bakery, which has a pleasant odor over Brewer Basin’s rancid air. Behind the counter is a tall and handsome older man, with scarred knuckles. Next to him is a young man with dark hair, showing him the contents of a box.

“You call this a jester’s smile, Johnny? It looks like he’s crying.” says the older man.

“Like the customer cares when they’re eating it.” answers the young man.

The bickering tells you they’re in-laws. Hal taps your shoulder to take your attention to the man sitting in the corner.

That’s when you set your eyes on the most handsome man you’ve ever seen. He even has blonde hair and through the shades, you can make out the dull orange of mutant eyes. Hal and him talk in Trussian for a minute, which is of better quality than the Trussian immigrants you’ve sold cigars to.

 _“This is the one I told you about.”_ Hal says in Trussian, “ _Not bad, huh?”_

The blonde hunk shrugs. _“I expected as much of a schoolgirl you fucked.”_ His Trussian is accented, which makes you think he’s a native.

Hal frowns. _“Really? You’re going to be an asshole now?”_

You fight the urge to snicker and pretend to play with your fingers.

“I didn’t think Shongolians came in blonde.” The hunk says in clunky, standard Shongolian.

You sit across from him, and reply in your country bumpkin Shongolian, “It happens on occasion but the eyes are the real mutation.”

“Interesting. Tell me why you’re willing to be in a green card marriage.”

“I don’t want to be married to begin with, but I have no choice!” you groan, “Unmarried women to Shongolians are like leftover goat meat: they stink and they’re unsightly. I want to become a software engineer, not a bland housewife!”

Your fingers ache from how tightly you’re clenching them. You slowly pry them apart, looking at the reddened digits.

“I admire your honesty and passion.” The man says, “This can’t be…easy for you.”

“I don’t even know why I’m being married off first. I have three other sisters.” You mutter.

“You’re ‘troublesome’ is why. Tell me why I should marry you.”

“This isn’t going to be the real.”

“ _I_ know that, but no one else does. Our job is threefold: convincing your parents, the matchmaker, and the state. Tell me about yourself and I’ll corroborate my interests with yours. That way, it looks realistic that you and I are aligned.”

Holy shit: smart _and_ handsome? Your ancestors are smiling at you from the Heavenly Hunting Grounds. “I’m the best with computers in the family. I mapped the gene charts of our sugarcane and tobacco. I’m useful in the modern world, not in the country mud.”

The man thinks and then says, “Tell me about the wedding.”

Its his way of saying he’ll agree to your plot.

You head up the bakery stairs and five floors later, you’re in the man’s small apartment. He introduces himself as Dirk, a Trussian-Canzian from Illaska. Between cupcakes and coffee, you improve on your plans. You originally planned to bribe the matchmaker with the money you’ve been saving up, but Dirk points out there’s no guarantee she’d do it. The biggest hurdle is his immigrant status, but Hal is the key to smoothing that over.

“Why do I have to be a part of this?” Hal grunts.

“Because you owe me several favors and because extensive cybernetics such as yours are a sign of wealth.” Dirk says, “We need to convince Roxy’s father I’m a wealthy foreign businessman. You will be my half-brother.”

“And my family’s isolated enough to _believe_ that crock.” You snort.

“Play your cards right and you might get a Shongolian girl on your arms along with a huge wedding feast.” Dirk adds.

That’s more than enough to convince Hal.

“What will we do once we’re married?” you ask.

“You have to support yourself,” Dirk says, “and I need you as an alibi. If certain people ask what I’m doing, you tell them your husband works hard and you’d rather throw yourself on a fire pit than question him. Or pretend you don’t speak Spanish.”

“Can do.” You’ve pretended enough times in school.

To further cement the plan, you instruct Dirk and Hal on your family’s customs and traditions, from speaking to the matchmaker to the Sharsi Shongolian sense of humor. Dirk speaks Shongolian but he doesn’t know the culture outside of that.

Next Saturday, the matchmaker comes to your house. Your aunts and married sisters arrive with basins of perfume and oils. As you’re dolled up, Aunt Sanira talks about the rich foreigner. You stay quiet; protesting is pointless but you have this under control.

You think of the Bewitched One, protective mother-goddess and terrifying witch-queen, watching mortals from afar and knowing their biological destiny: when death was near, when disease would strike, and what bones would break. She pulls the strings and couples with Time’s Clockworks when death is death.

She is in control and so are you.

You sit in the front room on the floor. A green rug rests under you and you feel like chips on a poker table, with your sisters on either side. You sit solemn like the Maiden Made Eternal, meditating on life and stagnation as greenery grows around her. Your watch as everyone goes through the motions.

Dirk sits opposite you. On his left is Hal and to his right the old matchmaker. Dirk’s manners are perfect, as you grilled Hal and him for hours: feet together and underneath, eat only with the right hand, sip tea, compliment the host, and the proper topics to discuss. The men jabber before getting to business.

“What brings you to the steppe looking for a bride?” your father asks.

“I’m a businessman with an image to keep up.” Dirk says, “I heard Shongolian women have a rural eloquence, polite manner, and carry themselves with the grace and dignity that modern women have forgot.”

You cover your smile with your bejeweled sleeve, pretending to be coy. Dirk truly has embraced the role you constructed for him: a modernized man with an ancient attitude that will appeal to your backwards father.

“Ruxandra is the best sharpshooter. You’ll never have trouble with her around.” Your father says.

Dirk pretends to agonize the choice. “The city _is_ dangerous.” He locks eyes with you. “What other skills do you have, Ruxandra?”

“Uh.” You stammer with false shyness, “…I’m really good with computers and electronics.”

“That doesn’t seem like the hobbies of a bride-to-be.” Dirk says, “What are your future plans?”

“I…I want to be a computer scientist. I’m fascinated by ectobiology.”

“Those are the skills of a modern day woman with a Shongolian charm.” Dirk says and it sounds…honest. Your stomach flutters. He looks to your father, “I think she is most compatible.”

Your father looks to the matchmaker. “What do you say of this pair?”

The matchmaker trembles with the power she pretends to wield. “These two are aligned perfectly in the stars and shall produce beautiful and honorable children. Their son shall be a legendary in his bravery and their daughter famed for her wisdom.”

“So be it, honorable matchmaker.” Your father inhales, “Let it be known in the family annals that this day marks the beginning of the marriage rites between that of Dirk Strider and Ruxandra Lalonde.”

Aunt Sanira stands, holding her hands skyward. “Let it be known!” she yells, “Let it be known through sky and grass that Ruxandra shall be married!”

“Let it be known!” your eldest twin sisters stand, raising their arms, “Let it be known through wind and water that my sister shall marry!”

“Let it be known!”

“Let it be known!”

The family cheers but their words hold spite. ‘Let it be known’ means ‘There is no turning from this’, for Sharsi Shongolians would rather cut their throats than face dishonor.

 _Soon I will be free,_ you tell your pounding heart.

 

Shongolian marriages are long and costly affairs, but your father has been saving up since you were born. You are not the favorite though so your wedding won’t be lavish. Your father is glad to see you leave and you cherish the bitter knowledge that you were the best helper he never knew he had. Who will manage the electronics? Who will check the sugarcane, tobacco, and corn for genetic blights? The men in your family are lazy assholes, shirking responsibilities onto the shoulders of their women.

You wish the bastards putrid luck. Soon you will be free.

The changes in your life are minute. Your daily travels impede escort accompaniment, but your Aunt Sanira constantly reminds you of chastity’s importance. (Rather late for that goatshit) Now that you are betrothed, you don’t have to hurry home. Your family encourages you to spend time with your husband-to-be, so you can ‘adjust’.

One day, you find Dirk waiting for you after school.

“I thought we could look around Brewer Basin.” he says, “Maybe introduce you to my friends.” 

Brewer Basin is still a strange parallel universe scattered with pitiful, malnourished trolls. On your second visit to the bakery, you see a new face. It’s a shapely young woman your age with black hair and blue eyes: the perfect example of a classic Leder beauty.  

She introduces herself as Jane. “So _you’re_ the blushing bride!” she says, smiling. “I heard all about you from Pops and Johnny but now I can take a look!”

“Nice to meet you...” You mumble. Jane reminds you of the other pretty girls at school: they smile in your face but snarl when your back is turned, wondering why a mutant had spoken to them. You wait on pins and needles for Jane to ask about your freakish hair and eyes.

“You must be nervous. I know I was.” Jane says.

“You’re already married?” you ask.

“Only a year.” Jane giggles, “We’d love if you stayed for dinner.”

“I-I don’t know…” You’ve never had a non-Shongolian dinner. Even your school lunches were bagged.

“It’ll be fine! We always have plenty!” Jane insists.

“Crockers cook like it’s the end of the world.” Johnny calls from the kitchen, “We got enough food in jars to last us through the apocalypse.”

“Egberts cook like flour is free.” Mr. Crocker adds from the kitchen as well.

“Be nice, Dad.” Jane says.

“I-I’ll stay but I have to call my family first.” you say.

“Take all the time you need.” Jane says.

You’re trembling as you use the bakery phone. Why in the hell are you nervous? It’s just dinner with Dirk’s friends. Dirk’s really pretty and nice friends who know how to use forks and knives like true urbanites.

Aunt Sanira picks up and when you tell her the news, she’s overjoyed.

“Making friends with your husband’s compatriots is the first test.” she says, “A friend can make or break an engagement. Bring honor to your ancestors.” and then she hangs up.

Your snort at her words. ‘Bring honor to your ancestors’. It’s how the brusque woman ended _every_ serious conversation, from schooling to puberty. It’s dinner, not a battlefield, but you can’t quell the fear in your stomach.

The Egbert-Crocker apartment is right about the bakery and just as cramped as Dirk’s, but there are little affectations to make it cozy. Everything polished and there are pictures on the wall of forested scenery and paintings to make the area seem larger. Jane cooks with amazing skill and Johnny helps. You can tell from the exchanged looks and touches that they’re deeply in love.

Could Dirk and you ever be that way? You both benefit from the arrangement but there’s no rule against it becoming more. He is handsome, honest, and doesn’t consider you a freak like your male classmates. Hal only fucked you because you were ‘exotic’ (which you now realize is _not a fucking compliment.)_

Of course, Hal also fucked Dirk, which makes another thought cross your mind: could he be molly? He hasn’t mentioned that this is a cat marriage, but you wouldn’t know. You’re no expert on sexuality and not like the bigots who allege to ‘sniffing out’ tommies and mollies on their morality crusades.

You push the thought from your mind. Dirk’s sexuality isn’t your concern; getting through dinner is. You shakily eat with a knife and fork for the first time, copying the pristine movements you witnessed from other girls in etiquette classes (that you failed).

Jane talks as if nothing is wrong. She asks how Dirk and you met, which school you go to, and so on. When you mention school, Jane grins.

“I went to New Post too!” she says.

“Really? I never saw you in High Moor.”

“The classes were crowded in High Moor so I was with the carapaces in Mid Moor.” Jane says, “though I think I may have been a year ahead of you. I stopped bothering though, as I had the shop to run and I was getting married.”

“With how much money the place earns, you’d think _I’d_ be a ‘Crocker’.” chuckles Johnny.

“Oh, Johnny, don’t be so modest!” Jane chuckles. She says to you, “Johnny’s father ran a very successful hardware store in the Lower West Side. Lord Sufferer rest his soul.”

“Pops should’ve cut back on the eggs and bacon but he was too stubborn to listen to anyone…especially his doctor!” Johnny laughs.

You smile awkwardly, unused to jokes about familial death. Just as dessert is served, Dirk receives a message on his QuickMail. He excuses himself, saying he has business to attend to but he’s gone for a half hour. You eat pineapple upside down cake and try not to feel nervous as you’re left alone with Jane and Johnny.

“So tell us, Roxy…” Jane begins.

You freeze because you know what’s coming next: they’re onto the lie. After all, why would a guy like Dirk be interested in _you?_

“…what’s Dirk like?”  

You blink and stammer, “I…could ask you the same.”

“Truth is, we don’t know much about blondie.” says Johnny, “Fella’s nice but he lives a weird life.”

“He goes out at night,” Jane says, “and each time he comes back in rough shape. I think he’s one of them”—she lowers her voice—“ _activists_.”

You’ve heard of such people but not extensively, as it wasn’t a popular topic among high school girls.

“I don’t...” You shrug, “What do you think about it?”

“Activists? Oh, I don’t know. I’m not a politician or a scholar…” Jane ponders. “I don’t like to see _anyone_ hurt but I don’t think mingling is a good idea. Trolls can be so bad tempered and violent, and then there are the ones with the… _powers._ ” She shudders.

“I ain’t too fond of candycorns,” Johnny says, “and maybe that ain’t ‘politically correct’ but it’s the truth. They’re violent and all the stuff they do with each other ain’t natural, especially when they don’t marry.” He shrugs. “Not that I’m judging them. That’s the Lord Sufferer’s job.”

You don’t know how to tell them that you have troll relatives; most of them psionics living in self imposed exile under Shongolian names.

“ _Do_ be careful, Roxy,” Jane adds, “Dirk may be friends with MP but they turn on you and they don’t hesitate to hurt anyone connected to those that raise their ire.”

The haunted concern in her blue eyes squeezes your heart. “I’ll be fine…I promise, Jane.”

Then Dirk returns to the apartment and the conversation drifts back to pleasantries. After dessert is finished, you ride the trolley to the train station with Dirk. At this time of night, the trolley is empty and your only company is the simplistic AI running the machine.

“You never told me what you do for a living.” You say.

“IT at a college and the occasional problem solving.”

“Jane thinks you’re an activist.”

Dirk snorts. “I wish I could. My interests are more…” He sits up. “What the hell?”

A troll kit with long horns and too much hair runs through the street.

“Shit.” Dirk yanks the trolley line and it comes to a halt. He gets off and you follow him. The kit sees Dirk and ducks behind two trashcans. The tall horns betray his position though. “Gamzee, what are you doing here?”

The purpleblood kit peeks at him and then returns to hiding.

“Did you get into a fight with your Mom?” Dirk asks. The kit mutters and he sighs, “You shouldn’t be out here by yourself.”

“She hates me,” Gamzee grumbles, “and she loves Feferi.”

“No, she doesn’t and you know that.” Dirk says. Gamzee whines but sulkily comes out from his hiding spot. Dirk looks at you, “Roxy, this is Gamzee. His mother is my friend. Gamzee, this is Roxy, my fiancée.”

Gamzee gives you a skeptical look. You smile at him anyways, giving a friendly wave.

“Hi, sweetie.” You say.

Gamzee doesn’t answer and spends the walk hiding behind Dirk. You carefully step through the narrow back roads, and enter a ragged neighborhood. There is a worn down church with empty fruit and vegetables stalls in front of it. Pacing next to the stalls is a tall dolor. When she sees Gamzee, she runs over and grabs the kit.

“Don’t you _ever_ do this again!” the dolor scolds. Then she smiles at Dirk, “Thanks. I couldn’t rush out after him and leave Fef…”

“Just go easy on him.” Dirk chuckles.

“He’s still in trouble!” Meenah insists.

Walking back to the trolley stop, Dirk informs you of the desegregated church and its caretakers. You scoff at the idea of desegregation existing in the heart of the city but Dirk insists on its truth. When you finally arrive at the bus station, you separate with platonic friendliness. You can’t complain about the lack of affection in a fake marriage, but even a kiss would’ve been nice.

But you can’t complain.

 

Your visits with Dirk become less about seeing him and more nurturing your budding friendship with Jane. Jane’s the only neutral party in your life: not interested in school gossip, not mired in misogynist traditions, and willing to teach you baking and sewing. As weeks pass, the permanency of your arrangement with Dirk settles in. Your father and Aunt Sanira arrange the guest list, the dishes, which animals to be sacrificed, and the gown you’ll wear.

“How long do these things usually go, dear?” Jane asks.

“All the funds have to be accrued for the ceremony.” You remove another line of slipshod stitching. “Half the town will be there. Over two hundred guests…”

Your hand trembles and Jane touches your shoulder. “The big day isn’t easy for anyone. Dirk must be nervous too.”

The pressure isn’t on him if things don’t go as planned. At worst, Dirk will be mocked by your male relatives and neighbors. You, on the other hand, will be dragged from the marriage bed and tossed into the grassland. Your father will pick up the first stone and then your other relatives will join, jeering and pelting rocks, dirt, and dung.

It’s the least you can expect for failure. After all, you’re not the favorite.


	6. and the days press on

**== >Past Roxy: Be Past Jane a few days later**

 

The key to a good investigation is never to prod. One must be like a thief: delicately maneuvering the lock with tools, patience, skill, and a bit of luck. Part of the solution is letting people feel comfortable with smiles and good food.

Such strategies never work on Dirk though. No matter how relaxed he pretends to be, he is always on his guard. From this constant alertness, you know he has military training and couldn’t have worked in a factory all his life like he professes to. Still, you don’t prod. You wait. Your investigations are at a standstill until Dirk approaches you in the kitchen one late afternoon. Johnny and Dad are out buying store supplies, leaving you to mind the store. As the store is currently empty, you attend to matters in the back.

“I need a favor.” Dirk says.

“I still demand to be paid for anything I bake.” You jest, cheerily frosting a wedding cake for the nice couple down the road.

“You know everything that goes on in this neighborhood.” You laugh but he says, “You don’t have to play the simple shop mistress with me, Jane. You talk to _everyone_ you can and you’re a good judge of character.”

“I’m just friendly.” you lie, “If I was Old Money, I’d be at the socialite clubs with all the other debutantes.”

“Do you think Roxy will be happy here?”

Not from what you can surmise of her history and personality. “I don’t know.” You finish the last pale red rose on the cake. “Do you want me to talk her _out_ of the engagement?”

“Not an option.” Dirk sighs. “I just...don’t _know_ about anything right now. The marriage is still a long way off…”

“Are the MP harassing you?” You pick up the cake and start packaging it.

“Harassing me? No!” Dirk wrings his hands. “I even have a friend among them, if you can call it that.”

“What would _you_ call it?”

“A long-lost friendship. Or a rekindling. Or…” he pauses. “My half-brother.”

It’s not a complete lie but it’s far from the truth. “Once that uniform is on, the MP cease being people and become a mass. Anyone who has the title of second best poker face in Leder should never be trusted.”

“And who has the first best poker face?”

“Housewives, of course.”

Dirk smirks. “What makes you so certain of the MP?”

“I have my reasons but they’re long and the story doesn’t have happy end.” You finish wrapping the cake box and get ribbon from the drawer.

“I have time.”

“Well then...” You pause in cutting your ribbon and then collect your thoughts. “There once was a woman. As a girl, her criminal parents abandoned her and so she grew up in an orphanage surrounded by other abandoned children. There was so much sadness and suffering that the woman decided she would make Leder a better place. She became an activist and although her life was full of danger, she still fell in love with an up-and-coming boxer. Their life was never easy. The MP would search their home, strip-search the woman, beat the man, and send threatening phone calls.”

You wrap the ribbon around the box, tying the delicate knot.

“Eventually, the woman became pregnant,” you say, “but stress took a toll on her body. The baby came early and afterward, the woman laid on her bed, steadily bleeding out. The man called the ambulance but they took too long. When they came, the woman was already dead. The EMTs were heartbroken and said that the MP had erected a blockage that prevented them from arriving in time. So, the man was left with his newly born daughter and his newly deceased wife. _One life in exchange for another._ That is the MP motto.”

You finish the ribbon. It’s glittering and baby blue.        

“I’m sure your mother would be proud of you.” Dirk’s voice is a whisper.

“She wasn’t my mother; just one of the hundreds of bones. It doesn’t matter if they go by Sarah Lee Crocker or Wendy or Deborah.”  

Dirk doesn’t answer. The doorbell jingles and you go to greet the customer.

 

You keep tally of everything, from the ratio of trolls to humans in your neighborhood, to the size of local families. You keep these numbers accurate by neighborly visits, gathering information with a smile and baked goods. This evening, Roxy is sighing more than usual as she stares into her coffee.

“I just…wish things were different.” She says.

“Different?” You ask innocently.

“I don’t think I can do this.”

You touch her shoulder. “Roxy, if something’s wrong, you can tell me.”

“It’s too late.” She whimpers, “There’s no turning back now...”

“There’s always another way.”  

“But there _isn’t_!”  

You knew Roxy was cracking under unknown pressures from your first meeting, but you never suspected it was tied to a fake marriage. It’s barbaric but nothing you haven’t heard of. There was a time when unmarried women in Leder were conscripted as dolors or abandoned in the wilderness under the guise of ‘agnostic monkhood’. You let the tortured woman cry on your shoulder.

And still, she hates herself for her fears. “This is so stupid!” Roxy says, “I thought I wouldn’t be so… _afraid_ …”

“There’s nothing wrong with being afraid,” you insist, “You didn’t have much of a choice for this. You’re in choppy water, darling, reaching for the only lifeline.”

Roxy smiles through her tears. “You know…you’re my only female friend.”

You could tell that from day one but you smile anyway.

When Roxy leaves, she walks as if having dropped a hundred pounds of lead. You wait until Dirk returns to the tenement and visit him with his weakness: cheesecake. Dirk is too bruised and tired to refuse the treat.

“Roxy told me something interesting.” you begin.

“The marriage?” You don’t answer and Dirk smiles, “You’re not like Johnny at all. You’re never content with the surface. Ever since you met Roxy, you’ve been trying to figure out what’s going on. What set you off? The fact she’s a Shongolian? The fact we barely know each other? Women’s intuition?”

“I’m just social, Dirk. Nothing wrong with that.” And if Strider thinks he’s so intelligent, he should know that a good detective never reveals their method. “I like Roxy. She’s a bit naïve but she’s sweet and good natured.”

Dirk snorts. “’Naïve’ isn’t the word I would use.”

“There’s several ways to be naïve outside of sexuality. Roxy _loves_ you, Dirk. You should see the way she looks at you when you’re talking to Johnny. I think she wants your relationship to be genuine, but I think you only see her as a shield.”

“What are you implying?”

“You’re playing husband and wife but you’re not interested in her. Roxy is always trying to get you to hold her hand but you shrug her off.” Dirk frowns. “You may not be doing it on purpose but your subconscious knows what you prefer.”

“Why do you care?”

“Dirk…do you happen to be m--”

 _“Don’t call me that.”_ Dirk growls and the words catch in your throat.

“I don’t have a _problem_ with it,” you insist, “I just don’t want to see anyone hurt. I’d hate to lose you both over a misunderstanding.”

“I shouldn’t be anyone’s friend. I’m not even friendly to _myself_.”  

“It’s never too late to learn.”

Dirk sighs and strokes the bridge of his nose. “Do you have anymore cheesecake? I skipped dinner and burned a lot of energy tonight.”

“For you? Of course.”

You share the rest of the cheesecake downstairs, listening to nightlife in Brewer Basin. Around the corner is an illegal desegregated club and further away a tommie bar responsible for the occasional bout of loud music and drunken singing. _To each their own,_ you decide.

You eat and exchange truths. Dirk tells you of his reconnection with Eric Solomon and trying to improve the city’s political situation. You tell him as much as you love Johnny, your inability to conceive is taking its toll.

“Will I survive childbirth?” you wonder.

“Will I survive being Eric’s friend?” Dirk wonders.

You pose these questions to each other but lack answers that will abate your fears.


	7. let it be known

**== >Past Jane: Be Past Dirk another year into the future**

 

 

You marry Roxy next year, in the beginning of August. It’s horrible. Not in the sense that things go awry or the plan fails. The wedding goes without a single problem, from sacrificing the animals to the consummation ceremony. (The less said of that, the better.) Still, the family and the townsfolk are drunk and happy. At the end of the festivities, a river of humanity carries Roxy and her dowry to the train station in a wicker chair. When the train chugs away, they send you off with cheers and fireworks.

Roxy and you are silent for ten minutes. Then, she removes the bejeweled headdress and wipes off her makeup with her sleeve. “Do you know any pawnshops?”

“Plenty.”

There’s a twenty-four hour one not too far from your tenement. Roxy gets a good sum for her jewels and silks, watching it all disappear into boxes behind the counter with an impassionate gaze.

On the walk to the tenement, she says, “I’ll look into getting my own place in the morning.”

“Maybe we should stay together?” you suggest, “It’s not safe for a woman to be alone in South City.”

Roxy frowns. “Just because we barely had sex doesn’t mean I love you.”

“It’s not that. Why spend money for a squat unsafe place when we can just…hang out? Like friends?”

Roxy shrugs, not totally refusing or accepting the idea.

You return home and share a bed, wrapped around each other and fully clothed. You’re rocking in a boat of isolation, wading through choppy waters into unfamiliar territory. You hate yourself for being a coward who’s afraid of abandonment.

 

You don’t introduce Roxy to the Solomons. That’s an imposing barrier to cross, both in culture and class.

“Things are tense in Brewer Basin.” You look over financial papers and ignore the blustery weather rattling the windows. “No one is looking into this arsonist who’s targeting xeno churches. Adding even two men to patrol could help improve things.”

“Not in the budget.” Eric sighs, refilling your cups with Laurels Brandy.

“Then let some people go. I can name ten men that do nothing but sit on their ass.”

“You _know_ I can’t do that. The Old Money families would yank their donations if their sons were demoted or removed.”

“Eric, _something_ has to give.” You sip the alcohol to blunt your frustration. “South City is in debt to its eyeballs and what about our plan to have a troll MP by September?”

“Cutbacks and none of your applicants were qualified. They don’t even speak Portuguese!”

“ _Most_ people don’t speak Portuguese. You have to allow applicants to speak Spanish!”

“Portuguese is the state language! Tradition would be lost if we change _that_!”

“Eric…” You slouch in your chair, “…it’s like you _don’t_ want things to change. You’re not helping anymore. You’re a _roadblock_.”

“Dirk, we have to be realistic.” Eric runs his fingers down your arm. “I don’t want to see you hurt by your ambitions, like those annoying activists.”

“They’re not annoying! They have a point…” The brandy is looming over you, congested into a dark cloud of misery.

“If you say so.” Eric says calmly in Trussian. He strokes your hand like one would an heirloom diamond. “We’ll be going out with the boy on the first nice day of September so the people can have a gander at…him.”  

You yank your hand from him. “His name is _James._ He’s your son. Your heir. Not an object.” Eric’s eyes are downcast. “What?”

Eric leans back in his chair, frowning. “A boy like that can’t carry the Solomon name.” He holds up his hand when you balk. “It’s already out of my hand. Barbara is pregnant again.”

“He’s still your son.”

“Yes,” Eric sighs, “but you can always be godfather to the next.”

So what will be James’s life now? Will his parents shut him up in a remote East State boarding school? Will they send him abroad and disown him in everything but name?

“No,” you say, “I’m his godfather to the end. That’s what I ate that sacramental bread for.”

The sacraments hold no meaning for you but it’s the only language Eric understands. “Alright, but the offer will always be on the table.”

No matter how many times it’ll be on the table, you’ll never acknowledge it.

It’s still windy and rainy when you leave the Solomon home and the trolley seems to rock along the tracks as it chugs to Brewer Basin. You check your tenement’s dumpster for Geneva’s messages. There’s a single strip of paper hidden under the lid, written in her cipher. You go to the basement incinerator and read it by the light: _Contacts located. 1 dead. 1 still missing._ You rip it up and burn the message.   

When you enter, Roxy is sleeping on the couch while the radio plays Shongolian rock. You switch it off and Roxy wakes with a snort, wiping the drool on the side of her face.

“You’re in late.” She mutters.

“I got caught up.”

“Yeah...” She picks at the loose string on her pajamas.

Since the wedding, you’ve been horribly awkward around each other. You both have enough secrets to make a series of detective pulps. You’re drifting in your thoughts when you hear Roxy murmur “something strike something pregnant”.

“What?” you ask.

Roxy chews her bottom lip. “I’m…shortening my hours at the cigar factory so I can help in the bakery since Jane’s getting more tired. Being pregnant and all.”

“Oh.” You whisper, “Good.”

You crawl into bed and don’t think about the words you ignored or the anxiety on Roxy’s face.

 

Sleep is not your friend for what remains of August and into September. Fear ebbs and flows in you and adrenaline is the only thing keeping you moving. Eventually, you abandon regular sleep and accept the new erratic schedule.

“Are you okay?” Meenah asks.

When insomnia has its claws in you, you don’t enter new locations. You just drift from one area to another in a thick fog. In this moment, you’re at the church. Meenah looks at you from behind her dark veil with Feferi in her lap.

“That’s subjective.” You say, “How’s the job search going?” 

“Crappy.” Meenah sits next to you, waving away fruit flies. Since Father Jimenez took your advice to become a grocer to supplement the church’s income, they’ve been a plague. Meenah stares at you for a  minute and then speaks, foregoing her awful Spanish for plain East dialect English. “The only places that will hire me are maid jobs and everyone knows that’s sex slavery central. Of course shit is getting crazy all over. Did you hear about what happened to those greenbloods? Or that yellowblood who ‘attacked’ a human woman?”

You try not to think about it.

“Dirk, are you _really_ helping?” Meenah asks, point blank.

“These things take time--”

“It’s been _two_ _years_ , Dirk. I’m not expecting a miracle but there’s no hope either. The MP are still beating and jailing protestors.”

And every night those bloodied and bruised faces hover over you, with accusatory glares. “I’m only one man.”  

“One man who’s close to it all. You _know_ the MP and their families are bleeding South City dry. You know it, I know it, and no one does a thing about it. I’m just frightened, Dirk...”

Feferi walks over, grinning at her mother. She’s still shy—too shy to speak in front of you—but she climbs into Meenah’s lap. Meenah pats the tiny fuchsiablood on the head. “How much longer until this volcano blows?” she asks, still in English so Feferi won’t understand.

“We just need more time.”

Meenah stands, holding Feferi close. “The only people that get enough time in this world are fuchsiabloods and it comes with a hefty price.”

Then the troll walks away, silken skirts swishing around her. She’s not convinced and neither are you. You say you need more time but you hear the steady _tick-tick-tick_ of an unseen, haunting clock.

 

September 10th is a warm and clear day but your mind is overcast. You sit up on the couch, looking over the piles of paper scattered on the floor. Looking at the papers of past and current atrocities and fires you’ve yet to put out, the futility of it all settles on your shoulders. You’re Sisyphus who considers the massive boulder to be his only friend in the world.

So on this beautiful morning, with bright sunlight flooding your apartment, you dress in your Sunday best and pour the gifts of Laurels Brandy down the sink. You drain the thirteen bottles and put it out with the recycling. You take the trolley to Seaside Park, enjoying the mid-September warmth.

Seaside Park is decorated for _Díau de la Rululoón_ (Day of Rebellion), with every tree roped with red garlands and the segregated areas with golden tinsel. Parade boats rest by the docks, painted garishly and their solar sails weighed down with tinsel and festive lights. The rides throughout the park are free for the day, from the Tilt-A-Whirl to the Merry-Go-Round.

Eric had originally wanted the affair to be in Robeline but you argued for a universal location. Seaside Park is the heart of South City, resting on the eastern half of the Southern Bay. It was where the colonizers first arrived, with portions of the original woodlands still intact.

The Solomons are in the back of the park, behind floral gardens and a gilded gate. MP patrol the area and escort you to Barbara and Eric, who are in a gazebo and doused in brandy. In their company are Barbara’s socialite friends, nibbling on canapés or sampling different brandy vintages supplied by a manservant.

“Dirk!” Eric is more than happy to see you, though its partly the brandy. He pulls you into a too tight hug, smiling. “I was worried you wouldn’t come after planning all of this!”

“I was caught up.” Your voice is hoarse, “We...have to talk.”

“Of course! I was getting tired of sitting around.” Eric gestures to Barbara’s gaggle of friends.

You walk with Eric from the gazebo, leading into a nearby copse of kapok trees. When you’re standing in the copse, you realized someone wasn’t present in the gazebo. “Where’s James?”

“With Ms. Hutchins of course,” Eric sounds indignant that you would ask. “I’m sure he’s feeding pigeons or whatever the old roach has planned.”

“You shouldn’t call them that.”

“Hm?”

“You shouldn’t call anyone by…what isn’t their name. Especially someone that works for you.”

Eric frowns. “Dirk, what’s wrong with you? You look like something’s crawled into your shirt.”

You turn your attention to the kapok trees. “I have to leave.”

“What?” Eric touches your shoulder. “What’s going on? Dirk, talk to me!”

You shove his hand away. “Eric, there’s nothing more I can do for Leder. Or you.”  Eric stammers in protest but you look him in the eye. “Can’t you understand? You’re like this damn tree!” You thump your fist against the kapok’s bark. “You’re so deeply rooted through rocks and soil that you’ll never be moved by anything less than a tornado or earthquake. And…”

You swallow, mouth dry and heart pounding.

“…and I’m tired of it.” you say, “I’m going back home. I’ll periodically visit and still be godfather to James, but I have to leave.”

 _“Yo medusdo ma zmor, crsu sae kdoqos'kaeo, Diedrich.”_ Eric’s voice is as low and tense as yours.

_I've never know you to give up, Diedrich._

“Me either.” You answer in Portuguese. What’s the point in pandering to your other connection?

Eric’s face is flushed. He opens his mouth but a woman screams. He steps out the copse, looking down the path. Ms. Hutchinson runs toward Eric, dress fluttering and tears in her black eyes.

“He’s gone! He’s a-gone!” cries the carapace.

“What’s wrong now?” Eric growls.

“I can’t find the young master James!” frets the governess, “I must’ve nodded off— _oh_! Oh, master Solomon, please forgive me!”

“Stop _crying_ , you old fool!” snaps Eric. He whistles to the patrolling MP, “The boy’s gone! Find him!”

The MP officers walk off in separate directions but at no hurried pace. It’s an open secret how much Eric Solomon cares for his mutant firstborn.

“Where were you?” you ask Ms. Hutchinson.

“I wanted him to feed the ducks but he was scared of the water,” Ms. Hutchinson says, “so we relaxed for a spell. I must’ve nodded off during my stitching and when I woke up, I fancied that the young master would like the flower garden. I went to the perambulator but he wasn’t in it! Poor little darling. He’s so tiny and must be frightened...”

“He couldn’t have gone far.” You say to Eric, “We should have a look ourselves.”

“The men are looking.” Eric grunts, folding his arm.

“Well, _I’m_ going.” You insist.

Eric grumbles but his footsteps quickly follow. You enter the flower garden, empty save for two elderly couples. On the ground are shining plaques dedicated to the Ibarra Rebellion’s heroes and martyrs, surrounded by black orchids and white gingers. There are toddler-sized shoeprints in the loamy soil, along with uprooted orchids. You follow the prints onto an asphalt path.

You don’t see any children matching James’s description near the rides or the game kiosks. The trolls look at Eric and move out of the way, children clinging to their parents and parents doing their best to look smaller. (Is this what you are now: someone to be feared?) You walk through the area, turning down a narrow flagstone road and passing a pine copse. Between the trees, you see light blonde hair.

You push between the narrow trees. James sits in the grass, scrubbing tears from his face. Next to him is a purpleblood girl in a rough cotton dress. The girl smiles at James Jr., extending a clawed hand.

“There he is! Safe and sound!” you say.

You turn to Eric and his gun is out. Your shout is swallowed by the loud _bang_ that follows a second later. The bullet races through the air and pierces the girl’s chest. The blood splatters James, marring his blonde with amethyst. The girl gargles and falls back, gargling blood and convulsing as life drains from her.

 _What have you done?_ You want to say, or _Why did you do that?_

But you can’t say anything. Not even a wordless scream. You stand mute and frozen as a crowd swarms.

Then the sound returns with a monstrous roar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's the end of the first part! The second part should be posted sometime in February since that'll be after my surgery. I'm sorry this part didn't contain a lot of pictures. I would have loved to include more, but I simply couldn't do it because of my health. Hopefully after the surgery things will improve. Take care everyone! I'm going to get back to answering asks while I'm recovering from the surgery. -- badAquatic


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